I still love ye, Judas
by Pilotofmymind
Summary: Captain Jack Sparrow doesn't feel. He's quite learned his lesson, thankee.   Implied past slash


Jack had wanted this, needed this for the last ten years. And finally the ship was his again, he was broke again but that wasn't what was the problem. Nay, Jack's problem stemmed from a much deeper rooted problem. A problem that went beyond worldly possessions, even beyond the Pearl (though just barely).

Jack's problem was from a feeling he wasn't used to feeling. Jack's feeling was, undoubtedly, painful. Jack's feeling was a bit useless, as of now. Jack's feeling was one he couldn't quite name, and dared not speak of cause he was sure every last crew member would be able to name it for him.

And he couldn't have that, now could he?

And to believe this had all started because he'd seen an apple. A bloody green apple. Why had Gibbs brought those? Or perhaps they'd already been on the ship. It hadn't been long since it's previous mutinous captain had been relieved of his captaincy, as it were.

Jack had to excuse himself to his cabin, where he could sit down and catch his breath. Where he could think. Where he could be alone, yet not so alone.

Since the moment he'd pulled the trigger Jack had been haunted with a strange, strange feeling. And a sadness he didn't quite understand. Why should he feel sad for Barbossa dying?

Why should he feel sad for killing Barbossa, better yet?

But he did.

Jack heaved a sigh as he drug his bandana off and sat heavily on the bed that still smelled of Barbossa, and looked down at the blanket, stroking his hand across it, he thought back, unwillingly one might add, to a time when he used to run his hand over Barbossa's chest (though back then he'd thought of him as Hector, hadn't he?).

Jack let the bandana slip from his fingers to clatter to the floor, before he let himself fall face first against the bed, and inhaling deeply he felt his eyes burning slightly, and wondered perhaps if there was something on the bed that he was allergic to?

Because that option was far better then the alternative, and reality of the situation; crying.

"Wha's wrong wiff me?" Jack all but moaned into the pillow as he curled his hand into a fist around the blanket.

He couldn't do this.

Captain Jack Sparrow couldn't be doing this.

How could he?

How could Jack Sparrow do this?

Even disregarding the Captain.

He was definitely feeling something, and that in it's self was wrong, because he couldn't admit it. Couldn't tell anyone.

He couldn't even admit it to himself.

Because really, how did one admit, if only to one's self, that they felt sadness (and perhaps a bit more) for a mutinous first mate, that had broken their heart and taken their very soul, and sailed away on their ship?

How could Jack still feel for Barbossa?

It was wrong. And he didn't like it. And he didn't want it. And he just wanted to get drunk, and sleep. He didn't want to cry, though the tears were coming now.

Jack buried his face in the pillow and inhaled deeply, thinking back to a time when he would oft bury his face in the crook of Hector's neck, and breathe in like this. Back when times were simpler. And Barbossa was Hector to him. Back when he had trusted the other man. Back when life was about more then just treasure.

Back when he was sure Barbossa had felt something for him to (but Jack wasn't so sure now, hadn't ever really been sure, despite the mans words).

Jack drew his legs up onto the bed weakly, as he shifted slightly, so that he was cradling the pillow to his chest, with his eyes wide shut, as he drew his legs all the way up to his chest.

He was crying.

He was crying over Barbossa.

He couldn't miss Barbossa. He just couldn't. Life shouldn't be this complicated.

Jack sniffed, trying to calm himself, but even that small sound was too loud in the empty cabin, and Jack felt as if he needed more in the cabin then just the soft sounds of his crying. And besides it still felt as if Barbossa were here. And hadn't he sat there with the other man, not too long ago, and talked?

Jack would talk, he decided. He would talk to Barbossa.

"Wha're ye doin' to me?" Jack murmured as he tightened his grip on the pillow, and squeezed his eyes shut harder, "Why do ye wanna h-hurt me?" he was trembling he realized. And cold.

His mind provided a memory that brought a strange warmth to his heart, he'd been sick, hadn't he? Barbossa had cared enough to help him. To hold him. It had been the best thing that had ever happened in his life, and yet the biggest mistake he'd ever made.

Asking Barbossa that foolish, foolish, child's question; _"Or... maybe ye just decided that ye do like me after all?"_.

"S-still?" Jack whispered as he raised a hand to rub his eyes, and try to wipe away the sadness, "I ne'er done nothin' to deserve this punishment, H-Hector." Jack whispered into the shadows as he drew the pillow closer, "A-all I e'er done was..."

He couldn't bring himself to say it. He couldn't bring himself to admit that. Not even to the ghosts on the ship. Not even to Barbossa's ghost.

And yet he felt as if that were the only thing that would bring him a release from this pain. From this sadness that had taken a hold of him and wouldn't let go.

He just wanted it to all end.

He just wanted to be Captain Jack Sparrow, again (with his fabulously cruel first mate Hector Barbossa.).

But he only felt like Jack. Just the deck hand that had wormed himself into the pattern of Hector's life to the point that it had physically hurt him (like it was doing now) to leave Hector's ship.

But it hadn't been Hector he'd signed on for first mate. Nay, it had been Barbossa.

And whatever pain he'd suffered, that Jack hadn't been there to help him through, had changed him. And the man that had cared about Jack had died, and left behind a man that resented Jack for his good fortune.

Life really was unfair.

"A-all I e'er done was..." Jack fingered the brass button that was sewed into one of his dread locks (the brass button he'd taken from Hector's favorite shirt, before taking his leave of the other mans ship), "L-love ye."

Jack couldn't believe he'd said it, as he settled down into the bed, with the pillow pressed to his face to allow him to breathe Hector in one last time.

But just as he'd thought, the words had lifted from his heart a burden he'd been carrying this whole time, he'd been unable to admit to holding.

He still loved Hector Barbossa, and probably always would.

Despite his mutinous nature.

And the mutinous nature was exactly what Jack had sworn he would hate Barbossa over to begin with, but even then, even as he'd spoken, pushed the man away, denied him what rightfully belonged to him, he knew he was wrong.

In the back of his mind Jack always wondered what had cause the mutiny. Why Barbossa suddenly hated him. Or if maybe the other man had, indeed, hated him all along. That wouldn't be quite fair, really.


End file.
